But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep
by thejacinthsong
Summary: "No," Sherlock said triumphantly, the final pieces clicking into place. Sherlock/Molly
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A very big thank you to the generous and very patient forthegenuine and cumberbabeusa for their wonderfully supportive peer-editing.

* * *

_"__The woods are lovely, dark and deep, _

_But I have promises to keep, _

_And miles to go before I sleep, _

_And miles to go before I sleep."_

_— __Robert Frost_

* * *

"No," Sherlock said triumphantly, the final pieces clicking into place. The Woman and Mycroft glanced back at him, mildly and vaguely surprised, but not completely interested. His nerves prickled hot and uncomfortable with annoyance, the fool she had made of him crashing over him.

"What?" Mycroft asked tiredly, looking very much his age. The Woman widened her bright eyes in amused satisfaction, the slightest smirk dancing across her painted lips.

"Sorry?" she asked elegantly.

"I said no. Very_,_ _very_ close, but _no."_ He jumped up and out of the armchair, raw energy flooding through him. He approached her swiftly, prowling into her personal space, but she didn't even blink. "You got carried away," he accused. "The game was too elaborate; you were _enjoying_ yourself too much."

Unsurprisingly, she batted her eyes and chuckled softly at him. "No such thing as _too much,"_ she purred. Sherlock grimaced, forcing himself not to jerk away in disgust from the nail she slowly drew down one of his cheeks. Mycroft was leaning against the table beside them, openly and quietly watching the interaction.

"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game — I sympathise _entirely —_ but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical _defect_ found in the _losing_ side."

Irene looked at him incredulously. "Sentiment? What are you talking about?"

"You," Sherlock said smugly, confident enough in his deductions that he wasn't moved by her surprised shock of laughter.

"Oh, dear God," she replied, her calm, unshaken veneer cracking in her mirth. "Look at the poor man; the _virgin._ You don't actually think I was interested in _you_? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

The words twisted through his intestines, heat flooding his body when he noticed Mycroft smirking. He pushed closer, almost touching his forehead to hers. She refused to move away.

_"__No,"_ he repeated softly, reaching down to wrap his fingers around her wrist, feeling the slightly elevated pulse. He smirked and brought his lips to her ear. "Because I took your pulse. Elevated, your pupils dilated. I know people assume that love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry at least is incredibly simple and _very_ destructive." He jerked back suddenly, whirled around in place and marched over to the fireplace. Both Mycroft and The Woman were both silent in their shared surprise and curiosity. _It would save us all so much time if she would simply give in,_ he thought grumpily.

"When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you; the combination to your safe: your _measurements._ But this," he picked up her stubborn phone, flipping it in the air, and grabbing it out of its fall, "this is _far_ more intimate. This is your _heart_." He tapped in the obvious code (and how could he not have seen it earlier — so _simple),_ and then froze, frowning.

* * *

"So, hold on," Lestrade asked again, _still_ confused and idly scratching his ear. "So — you're saying the new IT guy at Barts is actually a criminal mastermind who planned all of the bombings."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, bouncing on his feet and checking his phone for the eighth time in the last thirteen minutes. "_Yes,_ Lestrade, I really don't know how explain this more plainly," he snapped, his stomach twisted with panic and fear. He couldn't stay here, couldn't _stand_ this level of ignorance and utter, unabashed _stupidity._ His throat was tight and clenched, and he could barely _force_ air into his lungs.

Lestrade and John glared viciously at him. John was still trying to breathe properly and pretend that having explosives strapped to his chest had been nothing out of the ordinary.

"Sherlock, for _God's_ sake," John snapped, shifting wildly in place.

Lestrade flushed an angry red. "If you aren't going to be helpful, then you can just _go,"_ he hissed, and Sherlock leapt on the opportunity.

"Very well; there's nothing left for me to say anyway. John, I will see you back at Baker Street." He spun fiercely from the both of them, the stone in his chest thudding heavily, drowning out the jeers Donovan and Anderson sent after him and John's frantic calls.

There would be time to deal with the resurgence of John's PTSD later, but right now Molly Hooper _would not answer her phone,_ when Moriarty had used her friendliness to get near him. Sherlock still didn't know if it had been a warning, or if he had seen her as nothing more than an asset.

He knew that it was very possible that someone could have been watching him; but he couldn't bring himself to tell the cabbie to turn the vehicle completely around and back to his flat, where no more attention could be drawn to her.

_"I will burn, _**_the heart,_**_ out of you,"_ Moriarty had said, but Sherlock couldn't be certain if Moriarty knew where Sherlock had hidden his.

He threw his wallet at the cabbie; he could replace everything later, and he couldn't stop to rifle for exact change. He flew out of the cab and through the doors of her block of flats. He didn't wait to be buzzed up, for _permission,_ even though she lectured him all the time about it, because _what if she didn't answer?_ What if Moriarty had already… _no._ Impossible.

She didn't answer immediately to his first knock, so he drove a foot in the centre of the door. The force knocked it completely off of its hinges, and sent it crashing down onto the floor. Standing in the doorway, abruptly unable to compel his feet to move any further, he observed every corner he could see from his position; nothing. _Nothing._ She didn't work Wednesday nights, and her shoes, coat, keys and bag were all piled haphazardly in the front hall, as _usually done_. Logic said that she was perfectly unharmed and unthreatened, but still Sherlock stood there, choking on his own panic, until Molly rushed from her bedroom.

"What the—" she started, assuming the worst _(she was like everyone else sometimes; just as frustrating),_ "Sherlock, what the _hell_ did you do to my door?"

A wild cry burst from him at the normal, familiar and _welcome _sound of her irritation and indignation; she was safe, unburdened by this new threat. He threw himself at her, crushing her body to his, and both firmly and frantically pressing his hands to her body to check for any kind of physical injury. She struggled for a split second, but then hesitantly relaxed in her fear and confusion _(_that _he_ had caused_),_ holding him closer and gently, hushing him in a voice meant to soothe.

"Molly, _Molly,"_ he repeated, over and over, unable to think of something else to say. There may have been tears, but he was oblivious to his own reactions, focusing only on the soft, small, _wonderful_ creature in his arms: so innocent and unaware and _safe_ from the danger he had thrust her into.

"What happened, Sherlock?" she asked quietly, a long time later, when his breath had finally begun to calm. "What _happened?_ Is this about the bombings? Is John okay?"

He nodded against her neck, buried in the smooth crook when he could press his lips so easily to her pulse, feeling it thunder. She tried to pull away, but he resisted.

"Sherlock — come on," she said calmly. "I'll make tea, and then you can tell me exactly _what_ is going on. Maybe try and fix my _door_ while I make it?" She pushed him backwards and nodded firmly at the doorway, moving towards the kitchen.

Sherlock watched her for a few, lulling moments, her comfortable and lithe movements persuasive. He couldn't be bothered to do anything permanent about the door (not that he would have been able to; he had completely smashed the hinges), so he placed it against the wall, partially covering her doorway, and then rushed for the kitchen, refusing to move further than half a metre from her. Molly didn't question it or scold him, even when she tripped over the foot he had placed right behind her, or backed into him and splashed boiling water. She threw a box of biscuits at him (his favourite, she always made sure to be well-stocked) and handed him his tea (hot and black and strong, bitter and grounding to reality) before she took his hand and pulled him to her bedroom and forced him back onto the bed, climbing on after him.

"Tell me," Molly urged quietly. "_Tell me."_

Sherlock shuddered, taking a sip of his tea and ignoring how the burning liquid seared his mouth.

* * *

When he had finished both his tea and his clipped version of that night's events, Molly was in tears.

_"__Sherlock,"_ she managed, her voice cracking needlessly. "I am _so sorry._ I didn't see — he never, _I didn't know,"_ she implored, as if he didn't already _know; _as if he had even paused to consider the ridiculous notion. Sherlock took her mug from her hands and placed it firmly on her bedside table beside his own before pulling her tightly into his arms. Mindlessly, his fingers twirled through her hair, stroking with light, circling motions.

"Molly Hooper," he interrupted sternly, "it never crossed my mind for a moment that you had anything to do with Moriarty's infiltration of Barts. It never even occurred to me that he was behind everything, until he stepped out onto the poolside."

"Where Carl Powers died?" she asked in a tremulous whisper. Sherlock nodded vaguely, moving his hand to gently massage the tensed muscles in her neck.

"He has a flair for dramatics," he said bitterly, thankful that Molly did not point out the glaring similarities between them.

"Is John okay?"

"Shaken up. Physically, he's fine."

"Where is he?"

"Oh, if he isn't still with the police, he probably went back to the flat."

_"__Sherlock,"_ Molly chided. "He's your friend, he needs you right now."

"But _I_ need _you,_" Sherlock whispered, taking in the scent of her shampoo, a soft, familiar fragrance. She rarely changed the type of soap or shampoo she bought; she liked the regularity of the brands and the smells. She also seemed to know how fond he was of them, even though he never remembered telling her. "He could have hurt you, if he'd realised—"

"But he didn't," Molly said firmly. "Sherlock, we've been dating — " he grumbled at the word, and she pinched his hand lightly, "_dating,_ for just over two months. We haven't told anyone — not even your brother or John know, or I probably would have been kidnapped or cornered. We just have to be more careful now, until you've caught him."

"It's an _empire,_ Molly," he snapped. "A formidable network of highly trained assassins and criminals. How can I—"

"You will," she insisted fiercely, grabbing his hand and pressing it to her chest. "And you have help — ask Mycroft, he's more useful than Scotland Yard."

Sherlock tried to open his mouth to speak (really more to contradict Mycroft's alleged 'usefulness'), but Molly continued over him. "Scotland Yard is too public — he'll know, if this _'empire,' _is as immense as you say." He closed it immediately, dreading his next steps

He latched his lips to hers instead of choking out the words, mashing their mouths together and forcing her head to press against the backboard. Desperately, he kissed her, memorising everything of that single moment: the feel of her chapped lips against his (she was always losing her lip balm), the vibration of the soft moan echoing through him, the sting of her nails dragging across his skin through his clothing... the brushing of her eyelashes, feather light against his cheek bones. Sherlock was trying to press her back into a better position, when Molly made an indignant noise, pulling away and pushing his chest.

"No," she told him firmly. Panicked, Sherlock tried to draw away, her rejection throbbing painfully through him. "Wait— no, I didn't mean that — _come back here."_ She clutched his dress shirt (her favourite) and pulled him back down. "I _meant—" _she clarified, taking in a deep breath. "We are _not _breaking up_,"_ she enunciated sharply. Bewildered, Sherlock stared down at her.

"Do you not understand what has happened?" he hissed. "There is a psychotic serial killer who has specifically threatened to destroy everything that I care about. We are _lucky_ that he is still ignorant to our relationship — we need to ensure it _stays_ that way." Molly continued to shake her head viciously. "_Molly,_ be _sensible."_

"No," she snapped, struggling to straighten. "Are you kicking John out of the flat and making him move out of London? Are you going to force Mrs. Hudson to go back to America?"

_"_That is _different,_ Molly—"

"No, it _isn't,"_ she said fiercely. "You do not get to dump me just because there is a threat. You are a consulting _detective; _ a _good_ one. This was always going to be a possibility."

"_Molly,"_ he interrupted, _wrecked._ "Don't make me watch him hurt you — _don't make me."_

"We'll be careful," she vowed, twisting her fingers into his hair, still wild with the sweat and exertion of the past few hours. "We'll convince everyone that I'm nothing to you. Just until this is all over. We can be careful, Sherlock; just… don't _leave me,"_ she almost begged, tears sparking in her eyes.

"Molly."

She barrelled on. "Can you imagine me with another man? Is that what you want? For me to move on, and find someone else? To marry? To… _sleep with_? To _have children with?"_ The sudden, painful imagery made him want to vomit, and panic began to sluggishly bubble up his throat again. She was predictably correct; that was _entirely_ unacceptable — Molly Hooper could not be with another person; he could not allow it. She could not _love _another person now; not when he had the memories of their intimacies.

She had begun to cry quietly, wiping them away with a determined anger that he realised he wasn't going to be able to overcome. _Damn Molly Hooper,_ he thought angrily. She had _destroyed_ him, ripped away his barriers and his masks, drenching him so _thoroughly _in _sentiment,_ so breathlessly intense that he now struggled to recognise himself.

"No," he finally admitted in a murmur, framing an entire side of her face with his right hand and focusing on her wet, frightened eyes (and it was a vicious pang, because he knew all too well how much she loved his hands). She only wore her hair down at home. He _alone_ knew her so completely to recognise every side of her that were mysteries to every and anyone else. "No," he sighed.

"Okay then," she said with a forced brightness. "We just need to convince everyone else that you don't care about me." Sherlock nodded blindly, finished at the moment with the discussion, not considering the reality of their tentative plan. John and Lestrade would be expecting him to reappear soon; he didn't have long before they would call Mycroft.

So he jumped on her, pressing her down onto the bed, covered entirely by his form. She stared up at him openly: she was the only person who never tried to hide anything from him, never insulted him by thinking she could. She traced the tired, wan lines of his face, softly caressing his skin, and dragging her index nail down the vein on his neck, making him shudder. With a heavy groan he collapsed down onto her warm body, crushing his mouth to hers, exploring it thoroughly and firmly grinding their hips together: a slow, deep movement that nearly undid them both there.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: A continued heartfelt thank you to forthegenuine and cumberbabeusa for their help and support, as well as to everyone who left such wonderful comments. Thank you very much!

* * *

It was the hardest task he had ever had to complete, a certainty he would keep for the rest of his life. He avoided the lab and morgue at every possible moment, and he was ruthlessly cruel and acidic to Molly when he was forced to go. Nobody noticed how superficial and hollow the taunts were; even John was blind to the fact that Sherlock never crossed the final line, never said anything that would _truly_ hurt her. Molly played up the horribly clichéd character of some pathetically lovesick teenager, fawning over him and letting him bulldoze her character, her morgue, and her laboratory without a single word of defence for herself.

_(It was only then he realised how truly awful it was to harm someone you cared for.)_

At the flat, Sherlock shrewdly caught on to the fact that John and Mrs. Hudson were close to carrying out his murder (and despite John's military career, it was Mrs. Hudson who really made him nervous). Almost three months with Molly Hooper, and now he was unable to manage without her, much to his genuine disgust. He was going mad, deprived of the regularity of her touch and her conversation; her laugh and soft smile. Moriarty had vanished in the wind, but Sherlock knew better than to relax, doggedly pursuing his empire, their plan, no matter how much it tore at him to see her hurting. They were the words they had agreed he would throw at her.

_I'm sorry,_ he wanted to scream at her as she flinched back from the venom in his voice. _You did this to me, I was fine before, I was_ **_fine._** It was his little lie, because he had been nothing, worth _nothing_ before her. His logic, his experiments, his _deductions_ had become obsolete, overshadowed by the brightness she shone in his dark little life.

Occasionally he would break, and steal away in the blackest hours of the night, sneaking through London to her flat, changing from cab to the underground to walking, sometimes going in circles for _hours_ before giving in and slipping onto her street, only when he was _certain_ that he was unwatched and alone. Those frantic hours would begin with him breaking into her flat, often finding her perched in the sitting room and staring aimlessly at the television or a medical journal, looking as hauntingly miserable as he felt. More rarely he would find her asleep, and would struggle between watching or waking her (in the end he would always wake her, burying into her embrace).

And then Mycroft had him brought down to Buckingham Palace. He was annoyed and _bored,_ entirely uninterested in protecting the weathered reputation of a dying monarchy that had overstayed its welcome centuries ago. John's entrance was a balm, and he found it in himself to giggle at the ridiculousness of their situation, and more importantly at Mycroft.

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Mycroft sneered, after he had shoved tasteless photos of a woman in their faces, stretched out on a divan and clothed in transparent silk, holding a whip. Sherlock's jaw tightened, and he forced his silence. He was still under the impression of Sherlock's relative innocence and distaste for the human touch, and it would be too dangerous if Mycroft caught on.

So Sherlock hastily accepted the task, eager to escape his brother's scrutiny.

* * *

He savoured the pain of John's fist colliding with his face more than he perhaps should have. He had not regularly or properly boxed since his days before rehab (it had always alarmed Mycroft, and made him increase Sherlock's level of scrutiny). He had almost forgotten the frenzied high of blooming, spreading pain. It was the most alive he had felt outside of Molly's flat in two months, so he goaded John into genuinely attacking him with a justified, pent up frustration. Sherlock knew perfectly well how much of a monster he had been, and he couldn't find the empathy within himself to care. It was stretched too widely to cover any irritations Sherlock may have caused.

"Um, I've just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they… they took my wallet and um, and my phone. Could you please help me?" He was curiously detached, as his voice trembled and shook, desperate to reclaim the photos so he could find an excuse to sneak down to the morgue. He had not seen Molly for two weeks, not even a text, and there was a yearning, pressing need in his stomach that made him want to lash out at everyone and everything until Molly came to find him with her soft hands and smile.

The woman that answered the door wasn't '_The _Woman_,_' but she led him to the sitting room, petted him gently and promised to go call the police. He dropped the teary act immediately once she had left, examining the room carefully and quickly, until he heard the unfamiliar clicking of high heels approaching the room.

"_Hello,"_ a clear voice greeted. Sherlock twisted his aching head, but _The Woman_ (he supposed) lingered in the hall. Her voice was commanding and sultry, but overconfident. "Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name." She wasn't English; not originally. Her accent was almost perfect, certainly to anyone else, but she was American. New Jersey, most likely.

"I'm so sorry. I'm…" he trailed off as she entered without a stitch of clothing. _Oh, dull,_ Sherlock thought distastefully, learning nothing from her sleek, nude form. She had no story clinging to her skin; she was a blank canvas — dangerously so. Those who could so easily mould themselves into a fantasy were to be avoided at all costs; all he needed to know from Ms. Irene Adler he absorbed from the triumphant glee in her eyes, barely and poorly hidden.

"Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" She approached him steadily, bending over him quickly before he had the chance to jump away. Sex didn't alarm him, no, but he was committed to another, and he would _never _sink low enough to be his father's son. She traced his cheek firmly with a blood red nail, ripping the collar from the throat of his dress shirt. "There now," she drawled. "we're _both_ defrocked… Mr. _Sherlock Holmes."_

"Ms. Adler, I presume," he managed in a bored voice, fighting not to push her away, particularly when she sat directly on his upper thigh, biting down on the white plastic in some form of challenge. Sherlock was positive he did not completely understand what was happening, and frantically wished she would get off his leg.

"Right, this should do it," John said, overly cheerful, entering the room with a bowl of water and a cloth. He stopped suddenly, staring at the mistakenly sexual situation. "I've missed something, haven't I?" he asked slowly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and fidgeted. There was something intelligent behind her eyes; a cunningness that he could have perhaps respected, were it not overwhelmed by a desperate hunger for power and control. It was uncomfortably familiar.

_I will burn... _**_the heart,_**_ out of you._

* * *

Had Sherlock not known John or Molly, The Woman _might_ have been _slightly _more interesting. She was certainly clever and cunning; potentially useful in the future. But Sherlock was a worshipper of rational thought, and she used sex to get her way. His experience was limited, and the idea of sexual manipulation made him uneasy. As it was, Sherlock spent an hour showering off the whipping and the drugs, feeling unclean and shaky. It had been a long time since he had allowed any kind of drug to infiltrate his system, and he didn't like the reminder. It was only when he had composed himself that he was able to set off for Molly's flat. He was confident that he had done away with the problem of Irene Adler; she had no interest in blackmail, so Sherlock's job was done.

Molly was in the kitchen when he slipped through a window, and he saw her shoulders tense the moment she realised his presence; she was angry.

"Molly," Sherlock greeted tentatively.

"I heard you had a case," she interrupted almost shrilly, stabbing a knife down through a large carrot, "with a dominatrix. I've heard of Irene Adler — she's been all over the papers. She's... _beautiful, _isn't she? Really something." _Sentiment,_ Sherlock considered carefully at her biting voice. She was wired considerably, and would easily scare.

"I didn't notice," he told her truthfully, inching towards her slowly. "She was blackmailing a certain member of the royal family; Mycroft forced me to solve the problem."

"John said she was naked. On you. In your _lap,"_ Molly hissed in a quavering voice.

Sherlock winced slightly, making note to have a word with John Watson's overly enhanced sense of _drama. _"She was attempting to both shock and fascinate me."

"Did she?"

"Not particularly." Molly threw down the knife, and whipped around to face him, her arms curling tightly around her. "_Molly,_" he implored exasperatedly. He had never given her a reason to doubt his fidelity.

"Sherlock," she snapped childishly.

"I have no interest in any other woman than you," he said clearly. "The measures we are taking to protect us both from Moriarty have not changed that for me."

"But—"

"Yes, the trail is cooling, but I have not stopped looking, and neither has Mycroft," Sherlock urged, keeping himself from reaching for her. She needed to have this conversation, and Sherlock already owed her the world.

Molly frowned, her eyes shiny. "Promise me," she demanded. Sherlock began nodding emphatically before she had even finished speaking, stepping up and cupping Molly's face in his hands, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips.

"I promise."

She sighed, relieved, and melted into his embrace, burrowing into his coat. "Where's your Belstaff?" she asked curiously after a moment, pulling her head back to look at him. Sherlock touched their noses together.

"At the dry-cleaner's," he breathed, recapturing her mouth.

* * *

He did not want to do this. They had discussed it at length, and agreed on the necessity, but he still _did not want to do this._ It had been John's ridiculous idea to have a party to begin with, and his insistence at inviting Molly had been cemented in his sympathy for the apparent 'poor girl.' Sherlock had neither been able to threaten or convince him out of the decision, and John had refused Molly's feeble excuses, surprised by the invitation.

_("Get sick the day of," Sherlock urged into her shoulder, punctuating the words with biting kisses._

_"I can't," Molly gasped for the eleventh time in the hour. "John will think you forced me not to go."_

_"I would have."_

_"But he'll get suspicious," she tried, desperately trying to hold on to any semblance of thought. "Sherlock, _**_please."_**_)_

They had orchestrated it perfectly, down to a ridiculous outfit and shoddy attempt at makeup.

_("Sherlock!" Molly said indignantly. "I can't wear a bra with this dress. It'll look terrible."_

_"That's the point," Sherlock insisted._

_"This shade of lipstick will make me look like a prostitute from some film."_

_"Again, the point.")_

And now he would destroy any possibility of a public, working relationship. He was cross and restless, snapping at John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade before Molly even arrived, ripping apart their fragile hope in the dawning of the New Year, ruthless and without any remorse. Molly finally entered with an awkward energy they had practiced, and Sherlock had to force himself to stay seated, and not deal with Lestrade and John's open goggling.

"Me and the wife — we're back together."

_"_Wrong,_"_ Sherlock said cheerily. "She's sleeping with a PE teacher."

"First time ever she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

_"__Nope,"_ Sherlock chimed in. It did the trick, Lestrade and John were glaring at him instead of staring at Molly, who didn't look the slightest bit herself. He glanced up at her; she was breathing deeply, readying herself. His eyes skated over her, his gut twisting sharply, painfully, and then he tore her apart in front of them all.

"You always say such horrible things," she said when he had finished feigning shock at her present, the emotion in her voice deviating from the script. "Every time. Always. _Always."_

Sherlock felt something break inside of him, a rush of overwhelming emotion choking him. He tried to force himself, he _tried _ salvaging their plans, to scoff and _walk away._ But Molly was genuinely upset, the strain of their lies exacerbated by the clown he had painted her to be, and the unrelenting harshness of the holiday. Sherlock would never be strong enough to ignore her distress. He didn't _want _to be.

"I am sorry," he said instead; softly, _pleadingly._ "Forgive me." He approached her carefully, watching her grip tighten over the stem of her wine glass. The instinctive blush spread down her neck and chest and his mouth instinctively watered, remembering how far down it went. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he managed after a few moments hanging over her, pressing a single dry kiss to her cheek instead of a much more satisfying alternative.

He was almost grateful that Irene Adler had not finished playing with him.

* * *

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

"This is _low_ tar," Sherlock spat.

"Well, you barely knew her." Sherlock frowned at him, momentarily forgetting why he was supposed to be upset. Ah, yes, Irene Adler.

"Merry Christmas Mycroft," Sherlock said bitterly, walking away and flicking the cigarette onto the ground (Molly would be _very _cross). Caring was a disadvantage; the oldest piece of wisdom Mycroft had ever impressed on him. And yes, perhaps, the clearest evidence of that ideology was the misery of the last four months. But, as he headed to Molly's flat, desperate to make up for the evening, he knew that he preferred this to the loneliness of his youth. And while Mycroft was able to cast his blasé judgments, if he ever left the office for the needlessly expensive and empty flat he had bought years ago and never decorated, Mycroft went there and stayed there _alone._

Sherlock did not _want_ to be alone, and he was willing to make the necessary sacrifices.

* * *

Molly was curled up under her duvet when he reached her flat, having aimlessly wandered London for hours. Sherlock placed his gifts for her underneath the modest tree she had bought, along with the brightly wrapped box she had "given" him earlier that evening. He had deduced that her actual present was in there, but he refused to exchanged gifts in that manner. They would do it tomorrow morning, hopefully, when both of them had recovered. Christmas was not a holiday Sherlock would normally bother with, but Benjamin Hooper had made it a special event all throughout Molly's childhood and Sherlock was not going to allow the tradition to extinguish just because her father had died.

He stepped into the shower before heading to her room, needing to wash away the events of the last few hours. Bright red and towelled dry roughly, he climbed into her bed in just his boxers, a primal, vicious need to share his heat; to _prove_ to her that he was still human — still warm and alive and _in love with her._

"I'm so sorry, Molly," he whispered pleadingly, as she allowed him to fold her into his embrace. She shrugged slightly, tracing aimless shapes over his chest.

"It went as well as it could have," she said dully. "If there is anything positive about her death is that Mycroft has dismissed me completely. He looked at me like I was a bit of… _dirt_ clinging to his shoe." Sherlock had to close his eyes at the hard, self-deprecating laugh, clutching her tightly to his chest.

"I doubt she's actually dead," Sherlock confessed, trying to change the topic. "But for some reason she wants everyone to believe it."

"Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She thinks she has enslaved me in a game."

"So does everyone else," Molly replied quietly. He nodded distantly against her shoulder, quivering under the fingers dragging through his hair.

"I know," he agreed. "I love you."

Her fingers froze, until he nudged his head against them. Hesitantly they continued, more gently this time. "I love you too," Molly gasped, pained. "You _smoked," _she accused. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and nodded, drained and dull, refusing to relinquish her hold. They could have tonight, at least. He would make sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: A continued heartfelt thank you to forthegenuine and cumberbabeusa for their help and support. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time and care to comment — it is greatly appreciated._

* * *

Sherlock did not understand Irene Adler; not _really._ He understood the addictive thrill of a good game, the rarity of a worthy opponent. Her arrival in his life was overshadowed by the threat Moriarty represented and the secrecy he shared with Molly, and Sherlock had very little time for The Woman. The drama of her faked death was tiring, more so because of the way John and Mycroft hovered over him like he was about to _break, _as if he was a child both innocent and naive to the darker realities of life. _Pah!_ But she was a handy cover for the heartache of hiding Molly as if she was a shameful secret (she never had been and _never would be_).

And then Irene Adler reappeared: alive and uninjured in his bed, languorous and stretched out, just like on the website; fake and insincere, geared to make him trip over himself. Like he was a _regular man,_ victim to superficial desire or mindless lust. He was not — he was _better._ Even before, he would not have entertained Irene Adler, and her reliance on sex as her weapon. But now he belonged to Molly Hooper, and she took up too much room in his mind palace for somebody like 'The Woman' to hold any measure of meaning or relevance.

She handed him the email and he decoded it within ten seconds, making note to throw out the dressing gown she was wearing (it had been Molly's favourite, but it was polluted now). She didn't leave, choosing to lounge in 221B, and stopping Sherlock from being able to sneak out.

Insisting of the weak and ridiculous metaphor of _'dinner,' _she tried to spread herself over his form again, that night, stroking his hair and purring in his ear. In a moment of curiosity, he stretched his fingers to stroke her wrist, taking note of the rapid pace of her pulse. Her pupils had dilated, and the excitement in her eyes was genuine and predatory. She thought he was her captive; but he knew better now: she had some feelings for him, although whether they were shallow and physical, or a true appreciation for his brain, Sherlock was unsure.

But he was relieved when Mrs. Hudson interrupted, and he was swept away again.

* * *

And now he could use that information against her; _shame_ her for her manipulation and highlight the piteous feelings she had begun to harbour, to push back at Mycroft's mistaken accusations. He had been blind to her intentions, not enraptured. He was just _tired._

_S—H—E—R_

_Access Denied._

Sherlock gaped at the red, blaring message, and Irene Adler erupted into laughter.

"Mr. Holmes, I will confess some attraction to you," she managed through her unattractive _guffawing_. "But I am not stupid enough to use _your name_ as my passcode, to the phone that I _gave you."_ Mycroft rolled his eyes and slapped his palm to his forehead, rubbing tight circles against his left temple.

"Leave, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "You have done enough."

Further humiliated and confused, Sherlock stormed out of Mycroft's office. He had made enough of a fool of himself.

* * *

He wasn't thinking, not rationally. He was furious and frustrated and limited; he was a ghost of himself, haunted by a mastermind sending his minions to play with him and turn him into a fool. He was driven by fear, by the reminder of the depth of darkness and madness in James Moriarty's eyes. Sherlock had no doubt that Moriarty would kill Molly if he knew, because she was the closest person to Sherlock. He wouldn't be able to _breathe_ without her; Moriarty could never know the extent of Sherlock's weakness. John and Mrs. Hudson had already been dragged into Moriarty's warpath; Sherlock couldn'tplace anyone else in danger.

And yet, despite that logical and cogent development of thought, Sherlock still found himself an hour later banging into Molly's flat, slamming the door (he had paid for a much more solid one) behind him and marching over to her sitting room, where Molly was curled up with a book and Toby, covered with a blanket that was more cat hair than cotton.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?" she asked worriedly, placing the book aside and taking in the tension in his appearance.

"I just lost a game," he snarled. "Irene Adler and James Moriarty made me into another kind of fool, and I didn't see because I can't _think._ I can't think because I waste my energy worrying about _you_ and the danger I have put you in, and the _constant_ nausea that any day he could figure it out, and _hurt_ you to _destroy me._" His cheeks were wet, and he had never felt more debased or primitive in his existence.

"My thoughts, my actions centre _completely_ around your safety, your _happiness,"_ he spat, his fury sending Toby scurrying from the room, yowling his disapproval. "I am not the man I am supposed to be when I'm around you_._ I'm worse, and somehow better. _Happier._ How am I… _what am I supposed to do?"_ He blinked rapidly down at her, thoroughly destroyed.

"_Sherlock,"_ Molly whispered in a trembling voice, reaching to grab his hand. He meant to tear it away, to sneer at her and _break_ her and _leave_ her and return to the same person he had been almost three years ago. Instead he cried out and sank to his knees in front of her, burying his face in her stomach, and breathing in her familiar, welcoming scent. She curled her body around his head, still clutching his left hand tightly. She muttered quietly in his ear, crumbling, _again,_ because of _him._

_"_I love you,_"_ she said in a terrified voice, her tears soaking his hair. She fisted his curls in one hand, and the pain that punched through him set him on fire. With a roar he pushed himself up, grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her into a vicious kiss, biting ruthlessly, and not waiting for any kind of gentle permission before thrusting his tongue inside her mouth. He wanted to consume her, overwhelm her, permanently _scar_ her with his likeness, his memory.

He yanked her to the ground, covering her petite figure with his larger, more solid structure. She was only wearing one of his dressing gowns (one that he had left here for the sole purpose so she could wear it) and her underwear. He bunched the material in his hand and tore it off, revealing all of her familiar bared flesh to him. Molly clutched him even tighter, moving her lips and teeth punishingly across his collarbone, setting off a merciless arousal thundering through him. She was pleading and begging, voicing everything that Sherlock didn't know how to, and all he wanted to do was give it to her; give her _everything._

How could she still not understand? She _owned_ him.

* * *

When they managed to finally steady their breathing and calm themselves, still petting and stroking each other's skin, Sherlock blearily considered moving. They were curled between her coffee table and her couch, stretched and tangled uncomfortably with one another. He could feel the strained tension in her muscles, her forced breaths, waiting for him to say something punishing; to finish their relationship for good, and he opened his mouth and coiled his tongue to say those things and make another sacrifice in the name of science and logic.

She would try and understand, he knew that. She would put on a brave face and still help him in the morgue and the lab, with the burden that he had loved her and left her, without any public acknowledgement; without ever telling a single person. She would be reduced and dismissed by everyone as pathetic and lovesick, and she would take it, because she thought that what was what he wanted. Once she would have fought him, but she was resigned now. She had expected this, he realised, as she increasingly began to tremble. She had always thought he would choose his work over her.

What was it that he had told John?—

_"I consider myself married to my work."_

He hadn't been lying. Things had changed since that night, they had _been _changing since he had walked into the morgue barking for Doctor Bauer only to find a flustered woman; who had forced herself to stand tall and face him serenely and kindly, offering help and coffee and pleasant words, when he deserved the exact opposite. She had been nothing but accepting and _loving _from their initial introduction, and he was supposed to turn on her? He was to run from the life she was offering him, and allow Adler and Moriarty to _defeat_ him?

That was not the man he was now; not the man he wanted to be for her_._

"Do you want to move to your bed?" he asked quietly, finally, unsure of how else to cement her understanding that he wasn't leaving. Molly clutched more tightly to his neck, shaking her head. Her pulse was speeding up, but not in a way he wanted; she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak.

"This will end, Molly Hooper," he vowed fiercely under his breath, pressing close to her ear. Slowly, she pulled away, her eyes searching his for assurance. "This will all end, and we will be fine. _Together._" She found what she was looking for, obviously, because she exhaled deeply, a shattering breath of relief, and burrowed back into his arms. He could feel the curve of her smile against his breastbone, not as wide as he would have liked, but enough for now; to give him a chance.

* * *

It was many hours later, when the sun was finally peaking, slowly but steadily chasing the darkness away that Sherlock told Molly about what had taken place.

"Wait — what did you guess her passcode to be?" Molly interrupted, as Sherlock tried to rush past that part without too many details. Sherlock cleared his throat, crossly feeling himself blush.

"I, uh… it doesn't matter," he quickly said. "But Mycroft then—"

"No, hang on," Molly insisted, "what did you guess?"

"I never _guess, _Doctor Hooper," Sherlock snapped. "My theories and actions are based on a very particular and talented set of deductive reasoning—"

"Sherlock, spare me," Molly said curiously, trying to look him in the eye, as he twisted his head away from her. "_Sherlock Holmes. _What did you guess?"

Cornered, Sherlock cleared his throat again. "S-H-E-R," he said briskly, trying to move on. Molly didn't give him the chance, launching into laughter as soon as the enunciated letters passed by his lips. She cupped her forehead with one hand, clutching her side with the other as she gasped_. _Sherlock frowned, moving to pull away from her, but Molly quickly grabbed him back, trying and failing to breathe normally.

"Sorry, _sorry," _Molly wheezed, still dipping into genuine laughter. "It's just… you thought she would use _your name? _Isn't she supposed to be really clever?"

"It was meant to be a statement," Sherlock snapped.

"That — what? That she would use your name as her passcode, chase you around for months, and then not _expect _you to figure it out? She _gave _you the phone!" The look Sherlock gave her was meant to be threatening, but for some reason it just further reduced Molly into giggles. It was admittedly preferable to hear her laughing, considering the emotional heaviness of the previous evening, but this was not what he had had in mind.

"It was a _theory," _Sherlock defended petulantly, crossing his arms across his bare chest, his posture for some reason provoking further laughter. She collapsed against his side, wrapping her arms around him, muffling her chuckling against his shoulder. Sherlock kept his frown for pride's sake, but still wormed an arm around her back, cradling her against him and watching the sun rise through the window patiently. He stopped protesting, because Molly had not been as carefree with her laughter for months now.

Though he still grumbled. For pride's sake, obviously, and the fact that it _had been_ a genuine and _legitimate _theory.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you to forthegenuine and cumberbabeusa, particularly for their patience in dealing with me during my hyped up exam stress! But I am free and clear now, so thank you very much to the both of them, and to all of your wonderful reviews._

* * *

After a weekend spent hiding in Molly's arms and recovering from the raw wounds of his mistakes with Irene Adler, Sherlock returned to his supposedly empty flat (John had gone to visit his sister, and Mrs. Hudson was in the countryside), tired and drained, wanting to sit in his Mind Palace and sort through the events of the last few months. Molly had had to work, and he had spent too much time there already. He was still surprised at how genuinely reluctant he was to return to an empty flat. He should resent Molly and John for making him dependent on their human companionship, and long for the days where Billy was all he needed, but he didn't presently have enough energy to lie to himself.

The door was actually locked for once, so Sherlock took a few moments to fumble for his keys before the door would open. Two steps in, he stopped, his sensors flaring awake and alert. The overpowering scent of expensive Chanel gave her away, although she was lounging naked in his chair anyway, so subtly clearly had not been her intention. Her eyes were heavily lidded, her cheeks flushed, and she was holding her riding crop in one hand.

"Your application of perfume is overwhelming," Sherlock snapped, floundering with his response. "I suggest that you use less, unless you are hoping to knock bystanders unconscious." She laughed lightly, stretching languidly on the bare leather.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, don't be horrid." She sat up slightly, pressing forward to emphasise her breasts. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had been this bored with a seduction attempt. "Have you finished sulking?" she pouted, tilting her head and trailing her eyes over his form, prompting a feeling of relief that he had at least showered before he had left Molly's flat, even if she had blatantly sabotaged the genuine attempt at cleanliness.

"Did I have a reason to sulk?" he asked blandly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it neatly.

"Mr. Holmes, there is a time and place for coy, and we passed it a _long _time ago," Adler purred, pressing her hand to her skin and stroking down her body, pulling at her puckered nipples and down to her recently waxed thighs.

"Clearly," he sighed, recognising the hunger in her eyes. He found himself sick of her manipulation. He knew perfectly well that Irene Adler did not find pleasure in the act of sex; she only wanted to dominate him. He rubbed his sore eyes and moved to the kitchen, filling the kettle enough for himself, and flicking it on. The whirring machine began to hiss, hiding Adler's padding footsteps. She wrapped her arms around his back, grinding into him. He could feel her arousal, slick and wet through his trousers, but he was cold to her advances, his mind having stayed with Molly and the desperation and self-deprecation in her voice.

He remained still, waiting for her to understand the rejection for what it was. Instead, a few moments later her hand wound around his hip, grasping at his genitals. They were soft and uninterested, and Sherlock felt her stop breathing for a few seconds in her surprise and anger, as her hand began to tighten. Sighing, he finally pushed her away to flip a teabag into his usual mug, and splashing the boiling water into the mug. With his peripherals, he could see her shaking with a barely leashed in anger. She was little better than Moriarty, it occurred to him, unused to people who did not beg at their feet.

It was surprising, that her obvious research on his person had not yielded the knowledge of his lack of interest in sex; he had only ever wanted one woman, and that was after three years of falling in love with her brain. Irene Adler was a vicious mind of power and greed, wielded with a sultry figure and salacious, whispered words. There was no substance that she was willing to offer, and Sherlock was not about to bow down to someone he could never trust.

"Mr. Holmes—" she began to hiss, as Sherlock lifted the teabag out of his mug and dropped it into the bin.

"Adler," he intoned, stirring a spoon in tight circles. Her eyes flared with fury, and then softened, reorganising her expression and stance. _A new alias, no doubt, _he thought tiredly.

"Still sore?" she asked with a slow smirk working up her face. "It must be so _difficult _to lose, Mr. Holmes, so _perplexing _to accept that you have been _beaten _so very easily. Even your brother understood me, as icy as he is. But _you, _the uncertain and innocent virgin, clinging to your work as your only satisfying companion… it must be wretched to learn that you are no _god." _She had lost her talent for subtly, Sherlock observed, pushing away in her mounting frustration.

"I know that, I'm afraid. You would not be the first person I have erred with, Adler," Sherlock told her sharply, sipping the burning tea without flinching. "You have mistaken your infatuation with me as one that is mutual." Adler rolled her eyes and smiled slowly, approaching him again, this time pressing her mouth to his chin, and gripping his hips to grind against him again. He fought the urge to roll his eyes; this was becoming embarrassing. He had been very clear.

"Come, love," she whispered breathily, faking a gasp and pulling on his earlobe with his teeth. He shut his eyes, fighting off the revulsion coiling in his stomach. "Let me show you some well earned _release."_

Fed up, Sherlock gripped her wrists and pushed her firmly away from his, wincing at the moist patches on his clothing. He would need another shower. She looked surprised and annoyed, twisting her hips in another attempt to get near him.

"Did Moriarty put you up to this?" he snapped.

She shook her head slowly, pulling her lips back to reveal pointed teeth. "No, darling. This is about _us." _

"There is no _'us,'" _he snarled, shoving her back. "How awful it must be, to actually _want_ someone… how long has it been since that happened? Since you found somebody who is worth more than a fleeting physical pleasure? It must be… _baffling _to understand that the feelings are not reciprocated. Not because of a sullen revenge, but an honest and sincere _lack of interest."_

Adler's eyes widened almost comically, and the desperate fury that he had been suppressing for so long sprung forth onto the wrong person. He set his mug on the counter and walked quickly over to her, leaning down at violently clashing their foreheads together. "Leave me _be," _he growled. "I do not _want _you, not as revenge, not because you tricked me, not because I value you more than any past opponent. I would hope that we need never cross paths again." There was a flicker of hurt and bewilderment in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced, her default expression of arrogance sliding into place.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," she said airily, "I was here to throw you a bone, but your pride is obviously too great." She reached for a purse sitting primly by his chair and then took his Belstaff off its hook, slipping into it. She slowly buttoned it, waiting for him to lunge and rip it away from her; she had not finished, it would seem.

Sherlock looked on silently, imperiously, until she had no choice but to leave. "Until next time, Mr. Holmes," she called predictably over her shoulder, finally slipping out of the block of flats.

Sherlock sighed when he was sure she had left, his straight posture disappearing. He hunched down and ran his fingers through his hair, clenching tightly. He wondered if he had once been like that; so entranced with the feeling of power over another person to be able to exercise any hint of humanity. It made him feel sick now, thinking of Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

By the time John and Mrs. Hudson returned to 221, his chair had been removed from the flat.

"What did you do with it?" John asked exasperatedly.

"I burned it," he said simply, ignoring the gaping looks from them both.

* * *

Months later, Sherlock was dangerously grumpy, and therefore sulking both loudly and miserably. He hadn't realised that Moriarty thought him to be an _idiot. _They were equals in many ways, but honestly — did he think Sherlock was going to believe that? That he had obtained access to a _single_ line of computer code that would destroy their very civilisation? A string of code that _no one else _had discovered? Sherlock had been playing violin since he was four: he recognised _Bach _when it was in front of him, no matter the form. And they had even been _talking _about the composer! Computer code… _insulting. _It had taken Mycroft's team fifteen minutes to produce proof of Moriarty's little helpers.

But it would have to do; Mycroft's servants were achieving results, tearing down the pillars of Moriarty's network, while Sherlock danced on Moriarty's strings. Sebastian Moran was the key; Moriarty's right hand man, the consulting criminal's own slip of _sentiment. _John was panicked, of course he was, after Sherlock had goaded Moriarty so blatantly in the courtroom and he subsequently had walked out free and clear. Mycroft had known about the tapes from the beginning; black mail was tediously obvious. Disappointing, really.

"Computer code?" Molly repeated again, incredulously, cradling her cup of tea in her hands. "_A single line? _That can't be possible — it sounds like a bad plot to a dystopian novel." Sherlock nodded absently, tugging at the errant strands of hair that escaped the bun she had piled her long hair into. _Jeremy Kyle _was showing a marathon, and as much Molly hated the programme, she had given in very quickly to Sherlock's pouting.

_("I'm trying to catch a master criminal, Molly," he had whined._

_"You _**_always _**_are," she had protested, though already handing him the remote.)_

"Mm," he said distantly; Moriarty's first moves on this chess board had been painfully awkward and childish. If he wasn't going to put the proper effort into it, then Sherlock was going to sit here and let Mycroft deal with it. Particularly when the man from Birmingham was trying to convince the audience that he had not fathered the children of his wife's two best friends. _"Would you look at the chin cleft!" _he snapped, as the man worked his way into a spitting fury. The three women looked on, standing tall in their indignation.

Molly rolled her eyes. "So much for the brightest mind in England," she muttered traitorously. He glared at her. "Fine. Britain." His eyes narrowed to slits. "_The world, then," _she huffed, pushing his wide grin away from her and back facing the television.

"_Told you!" _Sherlock cheered, as the man collapsed in front of the jeering audience, while the women circled him, laughing and crying.

"You are a terrible human being," Molly said, wincing at the outbreak of violence, the three women jumping on him, forcing the security guards to get involved. "This is _disgusting."_

"Hush Molly," Sherlock instructed. "Jeremy is speaking."

"You know it's bizarre that you call him by his first name, right? You've never _met _him."

"You never know. I'm sure one day he'll do something that would require my intervention."

"Would you be able to focus on that case, or would you be too busy fawning over him?" Molly asked drily. He didn't bother paying attention, as a new family was brought out. She could grumble all she wanted, but times like these: easy and comfortable and devoid of frenzied desperation was a rarity for them. John thought he was meeting with his Homeless Network and Mycroft was in Siberia, dealing with another strain of Moriarty's empire. It wouldn't be too long now; Siberia was the strongest point, and yet it was falling so very quickly.

So he granted them both the afternoon, huddled close together and snoozing lazily, as the harshness of scripted reality television played out in front of them.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: We have come to an end! I would like to once again thank the efforts of forthegenuine and cumberbabeusa, as well as all of the generous and thoughtful reviews I have received. _

* * *

When James Moriarty fell, it was startlingly and perhaps disappointingly anticlimactic. Mycroft had captured Sebastian Moran, and immediately Moriarty dropped his hand of cards. Everything else came crashing down quickly around his ears.

_St. Barts' rooftop. Ten minutes. _

The text arrived exactly an hour and fifteen minutes after Moran had been taken. The security detail on John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson was raised significantly, but Sherlock went alone, rebuking his brother's offer. His life over the last eight months had been a gut-wrenching hell, and it would end then. He didn't dare text any of them, not even Molly, too paranoid that he was still being watched, that Moriarty could jump on that last piece of bait.

_Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive..._

Moriarty did not look well: gaunt and underfed, tortured bruises underneath his eyes as he stared down at his cellphone. There was an unleashed madness in his black irises, glancing frenetically up at Sherlock, who stayed solemn and still, staring down at him.

"You have been _cheating,"_ Moriarty snarled viciously, saliva flecking his lips. Sherlock didn't deny it, taking a step closer.

"I have been taking apart your little network," he intoned blandly.

"With the help of _your brother, _and multiple _governments_." Sherlock shrugged.

"And your misplaced and feeble attempts to destroy my reputation have been pathetic at the very best. The reporter was overkill; how easy was it to get her into bed?"

Moriarty giggled bitterly and sidestepped. "Not quite true; you are just _refusing _to play with me."

"This isn't a game," Sherlock said honestly. "You threatened my '_heart;' _ I wasn't about to endanger it by entertaining your special brand of insanity."

"You took Seb," Moriarty said, pained, ignoring Sherlock.

"He has killed at least seventy innocent and unwitting civilians."

Moriarty glared. "On my orders and on his wishes; to stop being _bored."_

Sherlock shrugged. "You are mistaking that for my problem."

Moriarty stood, approaching Sherlock steadily, his beady eyes flitting back and forth. "What _happened _to you?" he demanded. "You responded so beautifully to Jeffrey Hope and the Black Lotus... where did you _go? _Is this because of your little pet? John Watson, is it?" Searchingly, he leaned forward into Sherlock's impassive face. "No... something — _someone _else..."

"None of your concern," Sherlock interrupted hastily, stepping away from him to draw the burner Mycroft had given him out of his pocket. He flicked to the video Mycroft had just sent him, and then presented it to Moriarty: a forty-three second clash between Moran and MI5. Moran had collapsed under gunfire within minutes, left alone to bleed out steadily until his glassy eyes stretched wide and empty. Moriarty _howled, _ripping the phone from Sherlock's hands and launched it off the building. He stared after it, breathing hard.

"Cheating results in a hollow victory, my dear," he said vacantly; despondent, _defeated. _

Sherlock shrugged. "A victory nonetheless," he said cheerfully, reaching under his jacket to clasp John's gun. "Your choice, Moriarty. Come into custody, or we can have a _final showdown, _if you like. End this properly, like you always _dreamed." _

"I misread you," Moriarty mourned, glancing back at him.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You misread the influence of the people in my life."

"Then who was it?" he demanded. "What pathetic creature brought you crashing down from Olympus and stuck you with these ordinary_ mortals_?"

Sherlock shifted, and looked briefly behind him. "Make your choice, Moriarty. You don't have much time left..." Mycroft had lied; his minions were closing in around the hospital, countless snipers preparing to shoot. Moriarty followed his gaze, sighing heavily.

"What was it?" he urged. "What did I miss?"

"The same thing that forced you up here," Sherlock said. "_Sentiment."_

Moriarty began to laugh, nearly toppling over with the force of the gasped chuckling wracking through his body. He contorted and stretched his arms towards the sky, tears tumbling down from his eyes and staining his cheeks.

"How _boring,_" he choked. "How pitiful and _maudlin_ are _we_?"

"Incredibly," Sherlock granted him, soberly.

Moriarty wiped his face viciously, rolling his eyes. "Oh, _weeell."_ He grinned at Sherlock, and pulled a revolver out of his pocket, shoving it into his mouth and firing before Sherlock could scramble away. The gunshot echoed with a sharp bang, vibrating through the crisp air. James Moriarty fell backwards with little grace, sprawling onto the gravel and soaking it with blood and brain matter.

Sherlock's phone buzzed.

_It is finished, little brother. I do believe you owe me a little chat, however. MH._

Sherlock frowned in confusion, but pushed it to the back of his mind. Mycroft's agents were rushing out of their hiding places, talking rapidly into their phones and cocking their guns. He watched passively as Moriarty's limp body was gathered, somehow even smaller and more shrunken than before. His death was confirmed, his still heart taken note of. He was zipped into a body bag and whisked away. Sherlock's phone was ringing and vibrating angrily, and when he glanced down, he saw the crowds gathering in front of the hospital, held back by yellow police tape. He rolled his eyes; _Anderson _would be down there. He didn't have time for this.

Sherlock descended down to the front of the hospital, led by a stern MI5 agent. Her knowledge of what had transpired was obviously limited; she kept shooting him suspicious glances.

"Sherlock, you bloody _idiot," _Lestrade cursed as he emerged safely outside, prompting cheers from the bystanders, their cameras flashing and reporters pressing in. Kitty Riley was forcing her way through, but Sherlock ignored them all, eyeing Lestrade and John worriedly. It wouldn't do for the newspapers to catch him being brutally attacked by both angry men. After a tense moment, Lestrade only shook his hand firmly, slapping him on the back. John's jaw was still tightly clenched.

"We _will _be talking about this later," he hissed, grabbing Sherlock into a quick, tight hug. Sherlock began to grumble; Mycroft had obviously told them both everything, judging by his smug grin from the outskirts of the police tape.

_"Sherlock!" _a frantic voice called out, settling his nerves and worries considerably. He whipped around, where Molly was trying to get past Anderson. As soon as his eyes landed on her, she seemed to lose her temper and patience, stomping _hard _on Anderson's foot and rushing past him as he shrieked. She flew at Sherlock, brimming with a manic energy, launching herself into his arms and kissing him, their teeth clacking hard. He slid a hand into her hair, suddenly and embarrassingly close to tears and unable to drag himself away from her. There was no longer a reason to.

"You _idiot," _she accused, pulling away to hit his chest. "What were you thinking, going up there alone? Why didn't you _tell me? _You _could have—"_

She cut herself off, choking on the words. Sherlock steadied her fluttering hands that were clearly still deciding whether or not to hurt him, and framed her face gently, stroking his thumbs over her eyebrow, dancing across her eyelid and down her nose. "I fully intended to come back," he murmured quietly. She rolled her eyes, gripped his wrists and leaned into his hands.

"I'm sorry, but what is bloody going on _now?" _John demanded indignantly. Both he and Lestrade gaped openly at the two of them. Sherlock straightened and swept Molly under his chin, covering her with his coat (she had bought it for him; it wasn't his old and beloved Belstaff, but it would do nicely).

"Long story, John," he admitted, ignoring Mycroft's staring and the cheering and shrieking of his supposed _'fans.'_

"I'll want to hear it," John said dangerously.

"Me too," Lestrade piped.

"_Later," _he snapped, drawing Molly away from the crowds. "Baker Street," he murmured in her ear. She smiled hopefully up at him, tears smeared over her eyes and cheeks. He kissed her once more, wiping them away, and pulled her towards the road, gripping her hand firmly.

John seemed to sense that he was to make himself scarce, because Sherlock didn't see him for hours. When he finally heard him clunking heavily through the front door, he slowly slid out of bed, careful not to stir Molly's sleeping form, and padded down the stairs to the sitting room. John stood there firmly, clutching the head of his walking stick, glaring at Sherlock, who crossed the room to settle on the couch. He gestured to John's armchair.

"I would presume you have questions?" he asked calmly. "John, please," he interrupted, holding up a hand to stop John from yelling. "Molly is asleep in my room. I would rather she not be disturbed..." he trailed off. "It has been a very long time since she has had a decent amount of uninterrupted sleep."

"Okay. Yeah, right," John nodded, grudgingly sitting down. "Will you please bloody explain why you suddenly brought Moriarty down without telling me anything, as well as revealing a relationship with the woman you have been targeting for as long as I've known you?"

"Not that long, John," Sherlock reprimanded. "My distasteful behaviour towards Molly Hooper was completely engineered by the both of us a few months after our acquaintance had significantly developed."

"Why?"

"Obviously to deviate Moriarty's attention; he had already made attempts at friendship—"

"Sherlock," John interrupted exasperatedly. "What happened to _'married to my work' _and all that bollocks?"

Sherlock paused. "I — well. I suppose… hm. " John rolled his eyes.

"Idiot," he muttered. "What the _hell _have you been up to?"

Sherlock took a breath. "Molly and I are involved—"

"Yeah, got that, cheers. Not what I was asking."

"Several months after you moved in, it became apparent that the simplicity of friendship or professional acquaintance was unacceptable between Molly and myself. We agreed, for obvious reasons, that it would be best to keep it quiet."

"Right, and then?"

"And then Moriarty strapped explosives to your chest and threatened to destroy me," Sherlock said quietly, rushing the words out. "It seemed necessary that we keep anyone from discovering the extent to which I... _cared _about Molly Hooper."

John frowned, evidently reassessing their past interactions. "So the Christmas party...?"

"We chose her dress in order to create the appearance that her affections I was both ignorant and oblivious to, and that she in turn was awkward, uncomfortable and blindly in love with me."

"So the way she acts around us... none of it was true?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously not, John. She is an accomplished mortician with a respectable publishing record. She is relatively young considering her job title and responsibilities. People such as those do not _moon _or worship people such as _myself, _nor do they fall to petty manipulation. _Honestly. _It was slightly embarrassing how easily everyone took to our lie."

"So Irene Adler?"

Sherlock sighed. "There is a pattern quite easy to follow John. I have no affections or interest in Irene Adler; she was a convenient cover."

"Right," John repeated, still stunned. "So then you've been together almost a year? And _nobody _caught on? Not even Mycroft?" Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"I couldn't take any chances," he said softly.

"So what happens now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do I move out, does Molly move in? Are you two getting married?"

Emphatically, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_No, _John. Molly has been forced to keep our relationship quiet for the entirety of its duration. We are not jumping into anything, and she should have the experience in which I do not force her to hide. It has not been conventional, and she deserves to be open with our changed status."

John gaped.

_"What?"_

"Nothing. It's just — _you, _acting like a considerate _boyfriend_. It's ridiculously _strange_."

Sherlock grimaced. "Do not use such a juvenile term, John. Molly and I are partners. Adult, equal partners; not sticky, hormonal _teenagers." _John stared at him, and then burst out laughing, throwing his hands up in the air.

"What are you laughing at?" Sherlock snapped, only to be ignored. _"What?"_

"Nothing," John _lied_, biting his tongue to stifle his laughter. "Nothing."

Sherlock stood haughtily, drawing his dressing gown closer around him. "Very well, I shall leave you to your _hysterics _then." He stalked off to the kitchen to make tea (Molly had not been eating properly due to stress; he didn't like how wan she looked), and realised almost immediately that it would not slow John's amusement. His traitorous flat mate followed him into the kitchen, which was relatively clean. He had not had the time lately to conduct worthy experiments.

"We will still need to talk about what has been happening," John said quietly after a few moments, as Sherlock pointedly only took out two mugs.

"We just did."

"Not about you and Molly."

Sherlock turned around, confused. John's frivolity had melted, his arms were crossed and he was standing straight, the posture of a longtime soldier.

"We are supposed to be partners." He waited a few beats, but Sherlock couldn't think of anything fill the baffling silence. "If you pull what you did today _ever again, _and plot to catch a criminal or put yourself in danger without keeping me in the loop, then I won't help with cases anymore."

Sherlock eyed him thoughtfully, then busied himself with the tea. John was serious, and in all fairness the events of Baskerville or Jeffrey Hope paled in comparison to his battle against Moriarty. He pulled out a box of biscuits and placed it in his dressing gown pocket, picking up both mugs and facing John again. Sherlock nodded curtly, needing time to reflect, and moved past him, stepping quickly up towards his room.

Molly was awake, and carefully examining the space. She didn't hear him enter initially, and he waited patiently, watching her explore. She had not been in his room before; they had never had the opportunity. He had had full access to her personal home, soaking up the information she shared in her flat. It was suddenly difficult to breathe, as she curiously touched the scroll he had hung on the wall years ago, after a case in Chongqing. He cleared his throat and she spun around, linking her hands behind her back, as if she had been caught doing something wrong. He didn't like that. He put both mugs down on his bedside table, placing the biscuits just beside them.

Sherlock stepped in front of her, tilting her chin up to look him directly in the eyes. "You have full, unfiltered access here," he murmured, tracing the contours her mouth delicately. "_Full." _Molly smiled, pushing herself up on her toes to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"We're free," she told him softly, almost gleeful.

He would never admit this, but the tentative, hopeful smile melted him right there. "Yes," he agreed, kissing her firmly. He only intended to kiss her once, and then continue convincing her that it was indeed _over, _and so was their hiding, but he got lost in the deep, dragging kisses, and instead decided to do it later.

After all, he had purposefully switched his phone off. He could deal with Mycroft and Lestrade later; this — _Molly, _was far more important. They had all the time they could possibly want.


End file.
